


Unfinished Trek Tales

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, See the top of each chapter for individual information
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Sometimes writers just get stories that seem like a good idea when they start, but then at some point they refuse to go anywhere.  These are mine.You'll find information at the top of each story fragment about who's in it and what pairing, rating, warnings, triggers, etc. I think it has in it.  At the end of each story I'll put notes about where I'd intended for it to go if it hadn't stalled on me-- if I had any idea.  ;-)If any of you would like to borrow these ideas to write stories of your own, or if you'd like to build on/finish what's here, please feel free to do so even if your concept varies from what I had in mind.  All I ask is, if these inspired your work, that you link to this as a related work so I can acknowledge your story and others can hunt it down from here-- or can hunt me down after they see your work.  :-)Please don't expect me to finish these stories.  Believe me, I've tried.  X-D





	1. Shore Leave-based mistaken identity fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ST: TOS. Spock/McCoy. Mistaken identity. While wandering alone taking their assigned time on the Shore Leave planet, Spock and McCoy run into one another. They both assume that the computerized entertainment system has synthesized a double of the other to interact with-- but their assumptions are incorrect.

James T. Kirk took one look at his disheveled CMO and stepped back from the door to let him in, stepping to the cabinet for a bottle of whiskey. Bones had a shellshocked look in his eyes and love bites all over his throat; his hair was unruly and grass-stained, dirty clothing looked rather like he’d come in second in a wrestling match with a bear. 

“Enjoying your shore-leave?” He extended a glass.

“Jesus Christ, Jim.” Bones grabbed for the whiskey and shot it in one go, gasping against the burn. “’An ideal place for your people to enjoy themselves’ my ass!” He flopped down into a chair, then winced as if the aforesaid ass had enjoyed itself rather too much.

“Planning to tell me all about it, or are you just going to sit there squirming and making me jealous?” Jim sipped his own whiskey at a rather slower pace. He’d spent his own shore leave fighting with the simulated Finnegan, having a grand old time. But it looked like Bones had found a better way to while away the time, and not with Tonia Barrows, either. Not unless she’d taken up pegging.

Bones put his head down on the table. “Goddammit.” He laughed helplessly and tried to twitch his collar up a little higher, to no good effect. “You should recall everybody now before this happens to anyone else.”

“You’ll have to tell me what happened first.”

“Those simulated events down there. Nobody better get any ideas about fantasizing over somebody they know for real….” Bones winced and extended his empty glass. “More than that, damn it.” He waited till Jim poured him a double, then started to sip.

Kirk tilted his head, considering the possibilities for disaster inherent in that kind of scenario. 

“Not that you’d ever do that, of course.”

Bones sputtered something that might have been a curse and was definitely intended to be unflattering to both Jim and his parents. 

“So did the cabaret girls show up again? Did Ms. Barrows protest?”

Bones scruffed a harried hand through his hair. “I wish,” he bit the words out, then laughed. “You know as well as I do those girls were a front, Jim. I was afraid that place would give me away if I didn’t conjure up something with my conscious mind. Tonia—she’s pretty enough, but you know damn well she’s not my type. I oughtta be tarred and feathered for letting her get the idea I was interested in the first place, but sometimes.…” Bones shrugged, bitter. “Shit. It’s not like I could have the one I wanted.”

Kirk reserved judgment on that one; it couldn’t be easy carrying a torch for someone you worked with. Someone who had no interest in doing more than just fighting with you. Someone who… had no interest, full stop. Maybe. It was hard to tell sometimes.

“You ready to tell me what happened, or do you need another shot first?”

Bones just laughed, a little hysterically. “Both,” he said, and watched as the amber fluid gurgled into his glass. “So after Tonia and Spock and the others beamed up, I decided to walk around the lake and get away from everybody else, you know, so nobody would see anything unusual if my subconscious got out of hand….”

*****

McCoy kept the lake on his right hand, thinking the rock outcrop just beyond it would offer a little shade during the hot part of the day. He was surprised to find a low building at the base of the ridge, its gently sloped roof covering a structure that reminded him of a small bunker or maybe a large duck blind. Maybe it was part of the infrastructure that ran the place.

Curious, Leonard turned a little aside from his planned path. Finding the door unlatched, he went in, blinking to help his eyes adjust from the bright daylight outside.

Spock stood inside examining a control panel. McCoy’s heart skipped a beat and then sped faster—he approached with caution. He’d just seen Spock beam up, the first officer flatly rejecting the possibility of shore leave for himself, highly disdainful of all the charms this planet had to offer. This would be one of the simulacra, then. If he hadn’t already seen the showgirls—hell, if he hadn’t run afoul of the Black Knight—he wouldn’t have believed how convincing they could be. As it was, he’d expect nothing less than an absolutely realistic facsimile.

Good. He wouldn’t have to hold anything back.

“What’re you doing here, you pointy-eared pain in the ass? I thought you hated this place.”

Spock glanced up at him, raising a haughty brow. “Despite the tawdry and prurient human response to the amenities of this world, they are a technological achievement of surprising sophistication, and are therefore worthy of study.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Can you even open your mouth without insulting humans?”

“Your own behavior indicates you cannot do so without insulting Vulcans.”

He had a point, but McCoy wasn’t about to surrender an argument to a simulated Spock. “Yeah, but _I’ve_ got reason.”

Spock ignored him, returning to whatever he was doing, which piqued McCoy’s annoyance. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here with you when I could go out and conjure up a few dozen of those pretty girls from earlier.”

“Is that why you allowed Ms. Barrows to beam up without demur?”

“None of your business.” McCoy scowled. “If you’d had any sense, you’d have stayed here and sampled some of the fun yourself. Might sweeten you up a little.”

“I do not require ‘sweetening up.’”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” McCoy considered. “I think you were just too proud to accept my sloppy seconds.”

“That is certainly accurate in all particulars.” 

McCoy moved a fraction of a degree, just enough to stand between Spock and the overhead light source.

Spock sighed. “You are blocking the light. Please step away.”

“I thought you Vulcans had superior night vision.” McCoy crowded closer, enjoying himself immensely. It was nice not to have to play at diplomacy or worry about hurting the simulacrum’s… feelings, as it were. 

“Dr. McCoy, if you are incapable of a polite response to a reasonable request, I will have no choice other than to remove you forcibly.”

So the simulacrum had a little more fire to it than the real Spock. McCoy grinned. A little wrestling might be fun. “Oh yeah? You and what army?”

Leonard McCoy was not a fearful man. He’d faced death any number of ways—genetically engineered madmen, plague, firefights in space, hell, every time he stepped on the damn transporter. So he wasn’t afraid of Spock even though he knew the Vulcan was a lot stronger than he’d ever be. Usually he wouldn’t bother to resist superior strength; he’d stand his ground and stare any threat in the face, but he didn’t fight unless he had to.

Until now.

When Spock laid his hands on McCoy, McCoy resisted, breaking the initial light hold with a move from academy combat training. It was clumsy, but Spock wasn’t expecting it, so it worked.

Spock’s eyes widened; he renewed his attempt to restrain the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was obviously going to conclude in some hot, vigorous mistaken identity sex, possibly rather aggressive sex, after which they would both discover that they were not with a simulacrum. Bones and Spock would both make some rather vociferous objections to the staff of the planet who would tell them "Yes, but it was obvious this was what you wanted, and our planet is programmed to provide what you want," leaving them to deal with the elephant in the room. Bones would conclude his report to Kirk by telling him to warn the remainder of the crew that this could happen and refusing to dish any of the sexy deets, then vanishing off somewhere to complete his shore leave, presumably with Spock.


	2. Mirror Universe Idea Umpty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ST: AOS or TOS, Spock/McCoy. Explicit. Mirror Universe. This was something of an AR in which Vulcans occasionally take people from other species prisoner (say, when they find a ship that's crashed and nobody knows anyone survived, etc.), then force them to work in a brothel where Vulcans that have no mate go in desperation when they must find one in order to survive pon farr. Humans are especially valued for this work because, as psi nulls, they have no rights/can't demand marital status or property, can't enforce any kind of needs through a bond they can't feel even if it comes into being, etc. The Vulcans abduct McCoy to have him serve as a physician to the human inmates of the brothel; he isn't a prostitute himself... until one day, he draws the attraction of the wrong desperate client.

He makes his rounds methodically, visiting every room in turn, looking in on the occupants. All of them lodged on the three floors his identity card will allow him access are human. 

Over a hundred patients rely on his care, both males and females. 

For a mercy, none are younger than twenty.

They complain of headaches, depression, menstrual cramps, minor aches and pains. He measures temperatures, takes and analyzes blood samples, places pills and tablets into cupped palms, administers hyposprays of medication or vitamins. He palpates abdomens, pulls down eyelids to examine pupils, inspects ear canals, disinfects scratches.

He tends them all to the best of his ability: dermal regenerators, disinfectants, surgery if and when required. Bone regeneration, occasionally. He does what he can to dispense psychological counsel, as well. He comforts them. He makes friends in his own reserved way.

Some days he does more. Frequently doors open to reveal whimpering heaps of quivering humanity still lying in the very beds where they were used and left. Sometimes a door opens on a scene of carnage and he can do little or nothing for what remains of his patient. 

He advises the others it’s best not to fight.

He isn’t subject to the same conditions as they are-- he’s a doctor, not a whore. He feels guilty about that, but he’s glad nonetheless.

He lost track of how long he’s been here some time after the second year.

Joanna will be four now, or five. Maybe even six. Every day is very similar to the previous ones and he has no way to keep track of time. 

Red sandstone is cool and faintly gritty under his feet as he pads down a corridor. It’s very early-- just after dawn, his favorite time of day here in the desert. By the midday meal, these corridors will be roasting hot.

He keeps his hood pulled over his head and his chin low so he won’t have to look any of the hobgoblins in the eye; they like to rise early. They’re haughty at best and extremely dangerous at worst. The last doctor caught one’s attention-- and when the inevitable time came, he found he’d lost his protected status. He didn’t take the news well-- he fought-- and after it was over, no one knew how to scrape him out of the bed and put him back together.

That was what the others said, anyway. Leonard figures they’re right. 

He keeps his eyes on his toes and doesn’t talk. He nods and makes lists on PADDs to request supplies. They provide what he requires; the humans imprisoned here are a valuable commodity.

He’s figured out a few things: he’s been so quiet, so unobtrusive, he’s overheard secrets. It’s enough that he knows he won’t ever be allowed to walk out of here alive. He knows that the people he tends aren’t just kept as whores for entertainment; he understands his green-blooded masters are slaves to their own reproductive cycles. They come here, they do this, because they have to breed. 

He doesn’t know why humans are necessary to this process. Maybe it’s just perversion, plain and simple: a fetish for the exotic. Maybe there’s some other advantage to using a human. He keeps quiet and listens. Maybe someday he’ll learn. 

He knows there are dozens of other floors. He thinks they probably have other races lodged there. He wonders if any of the other floors house Vulcan whores. Perhaps they do. Perhaps not.

It’s none of his business. He takes care of his own.

Rounding a quiet corner, Leonard nearly runs headlong into one of the greenies. He blinks as he takes evasive action, surprised by the man’s Starfleet uniform. He didn’t even know the greenies let their people join Starfleet. Starfleet has a distinctly human-centric philosophy, largely thanks to the greenies being such damned insufferable snobs after first contact about the Terran lack of fitness for making their interstellar debut. 

Leonard stumbles in his urgency to avoid colliding with the Vulcan, who seizes him by one arm and effortlessly keeps him on his feet.

Leonard’s hood falls back and he finds himself eye to eye with a young Vulcan male, severe but handsome features calm around oddly expressive dark eyes. _Shit. Shit!_ Unlike most Vulcans this one is bearded, the dark facial hair giving his face a disturbing saturnine aspect.

Leonard wrenches his eyes down to the floor and steps back as soon as his arm is released.

“It is the human doctor,” another Vulcan speaks, his tone pure indifference. 

“Ah.” A single word, a single syllable from the officer, and the two pass by. 

Several rooms are newly occupied on this corridor-- wild eyed humans yell demands and threats at McCoy as he attempts to deal with them. He has to use a sedative on two of the men before they’ll settle down and let him talk. He tells them where they are and what they’ll be doing. They’re apparently Starfleet personnel-- or they used to be. 

“It’ll be nice to finally put it to one of those supercilious Vulcan bitches,” one man snarls. 

“You’ll bend over and let the males ream your ass, too, if you want to live,” McCoy informs him on his way out. The door slides shut just before a heavy chair strikes it. He makes a note on his floor chart. Any whores who attack him get a strong dose of tranquilizer in their plomeek until they learn better. 

Most of the new people are belligerent and combative. One of them weeps. Others curse. One blonde woman looks him straight in the eye and stays calm. “Spock said it was either this or the agonizer booth for the full duration,” she says. “This has got to be better than the alternative. Logically.” She laughs suddenly, sounding hysterical.

McCoy doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s just glad she accepts her vitamin supplement without a fight.

He waits in fear for a week-- for two-- before his fear subsides to ordinary caution. It appears the incidental contact with the Vulcan Starfleet officer won’t have any repercussions after all.

*****

“How did _you_ wind up here, doctor?” The blonde woman asks him after a few weeks pass.

McCoy laughs shortly. “I’ve always been here.” He doesn’t share his story with anybody. Not the divorce with Jocelyn, nor the restraining order that forced him to leave the planet, nor the attack on his transport ship by Tellarite pirates who were after just one thing-- _him,_ a _human doctor,_ specifically requested by their discreetly anonymous Vulcan employers.

The Tellarites had scuttled the ship and taken him prisoner, leaving him on a forsaken moon with only a spacesuit and a single tank of air, taking several crates of something heavy that had been left in exchange.

He’d been terrified of his air running out, but the Vulcans arrived long before that and beamed him into a cell, then brought him here. 

“How’d you get your medical training?”

“What’d you do to piss off some ’Fleet officer so much he ordered your execution?” McCoy countered.

“I wouldn’t let him rape me.” She laughs sharply-- she’s already served three clients since arrival (none of them are ever left idle for more than a week or so at a time unless he certifies them medically unfit). “How’s that for irony?”

It’s a pretty cruel irony, and Leonard acknowledges it. He gets out, though, before he starts feeling close to her. It doesn’t pay to let anyone get too close.

*****

When the greenies come for him, he isn’t expecting them. 

He’s finished his rounds and is, as always, on call if an emergency requires his services. He has access to any medical knowledge he wants on the intergalactic comm net-- he just can’t access non-medical information or transmit anything out. So he uses the time to exercise, keep current on medical journals, and compose his supply orders. 

Medical journals are of academic interest, and sometimes they teach him something he can use if one of the whores develops a traditional illness, but they don’t usually tell him a lot about how to take care of people who’ve been fucked raw for days on end by hormone-crazed lunatics four times as strong as they are. That part he has to figure out on his own. 

His eyes jerk up from the screen as his door slides open. Four Vulcan males stand there. They don’t even have to say anything. he _knows._ If they wanted anything else, they’d have initiated a voice communication instead.

“No,” he says, his mind whirring for a way to bargain. Logic-- it’s his only hope to reach them. “You _need_ me. I’m worth more to you than this.”

“You have been requested.” It’s the only response the whores ever get. 

They drag him out and put him in a plain breeding cell, without the luxury of a computer terminal. Without his medical supplies, goddammit. 

Leonard sits shivering in a corner-- he won’t go near the bed. He thinks about all the times he’s advised the others not to fight.

He can’t decide whether to fight or not. 

The door slides open with a menacing hiss. 

Of course it’s the Starfleet Vulcan, the bearded one, the one who was there when Leonard fucked up. His face is set in hard lines and his hands flex with tension as he looks down on Leonard. He steps inside and the door hisses shut. 

He looks feverish; his skin gleams with perspiration in the reddish light. He does not speak, advancing on Leonard with slow steps, placing one boot precisely before the other. He is shirtless and spattered with dried green blood that does not appear to be his own. 

Leonard scuttles sideways before the Vulcan reaches him with that implacable stride. The whores he saved from execution have told Leonard this one’s name: it is Spock. 

“There’s been a mistake, Spock,” Leonard tells him, trying not to panic. He feels the mattress bumping at the back of his knees. There is no way around the Vulcan. The room is too small. There would be nowhere to hide even if he dodged the first advance; the room is a square, its simple toilet exposed in the opposite corner. The door sensor will not respond to Leonard’s hand. 

“I’m not one of the whores. I’m the doctor. Pick somebody else.”

The Vulcan ignores him, stepping closer, arms outstretched to trap him if he resists. He’s obviously too far gone to make another selection even if he understands Leonard-- and there’s no indication that he does.

Leonard swallows with difficulty; the Vulcan smells of copper blood and of musk. Pheromones gather thickly in the tiny space. 

Self-preservation is paramount, so Leonard surrenders to the inevitable. He forces himself to hold still.

Spock seizes him, shredding his tunic with a low purr-- with terrifying ease. Hot hands travel across his chest, over his shoulders, and down his arms. He trembles as the Vulcan crowds close, scenting him. The Vulcan is objectively very beautiful. The fact does nothing to lessen either Leonard’s reluctance or his terror.

One hard hand climbs again, settling over his face like a crawling spider, and fire obliterates his mind.

*****

Leonard surfaces to pain. He has not been gone, not as unconsciousness would have it… but rather, he has been subsumed in the fever, buried and burning.

He remembers the last few days in hazy snatches-- bodies slick with sweat, grinding together. Pain and pleasure indistinguishable. The animal noises that Spock made, taking him. Somehow he had survived.

A preliminary diagnosis forms where intelligence pushes back the fire: _My ass is raw hamburger._ He’s seen it often enough to know for certain. Secondary information trickles in as minor pains make themselves known: bites, bruises, aches and strains. He doesn’t think any bones are broken. 

The Vulcan rises and goes to the door-- and Leonard’s medical gear is there. Spock seems to know how to use it. He picks up a protoplaser and calibrates it with sure motions of long fingers.

Leonard plays possum, lying very still. He hears the familiar whine of the machine and feels the pain of his abraded tissues lessen. 

The equipment knows its job even if the Vulcan doesn’t; it has an algorithm for anal repairs that Leonard designed himself. The reduction of pain in his lower body tells Leonard it’s functioning perfectly.

The Vulcan persists after the worst damage is healed, and one by one Leonard’s smaller pains recede: the strain in his lower back and pelvis, the sting of bruises and bites. He has done this himself hundreds of times. He is glad of the relief-- but as it comes, the pain of mind and spirit is no longer eclipsed and returns tenfold. 

“You knew my name.” The Vulcan speaks, his voice hoarse: no one has tended _his_ injuries, few though they are. 

Leonard doesn’t answer. He could not offer his rapist aid even if he would; his instruments are calibrated to human settings and he does not know Vulcan equivalents. Maybe the greenie has a raw, sore throat from all the growling and yelling he did while he shredded Leonard’s ass. 

How terrible for him. 

“You’re infamous around here. Commander Spock, gallant preserver of the condemned-- a true hero of a pimp if ever there was one.” He makes the words as hateful as he can. He shifts carefully, grimacing-- the filth of their joining is still all smeared over him. 

“It is illogical to waste life.”

Leonard raises a brow and glares at him. “As if whoring out highly trained, intelligent people isn’t a waste?”

“It is better than the alternative.” The Vulcan replaced the instruments in Leonard’s things. “We will return to your quarters now.”

Leonard follows him, naked and filthy and shivering in the cold night air. His clothes he leaves behind; he can’t even take a sheet to cover himself. They’re a nightmare of semen-soaked shreds.

His quarters don’t feel like his anymore; they’re no longer a haven. No longer safe.

Spock sets his medical kit in its place on his desk and disappears into the lavatory. The sonic shower activates shortly thereafter. 

Leonard stares at his equipment and considers putting a lethal dose of something in a hypo, then waiting to torpedo Spock with it when he emerges. Maybe he’s just in shock, but he can’t muster the determination to act.

 _First, do no harm._

Leonard’s lips twist in a scowl of self-hatred, but he stands still. He isn’t fit to sit down yet; he doesn’t want to soil his possessions, such as they are. He stands, numb, staring at the little room. Everything in it has been given to him; nothing is his own. It is not his. His status as a doctor meant nothing. Means nothing. This could happen again. Will happen again.

Spock emerges in due time, dressed in new, clean robes that were apparently waiting for him inside the lavatory. “Clean yourself and dress,” he advises Leonard.

The allure of a shower overwhelms Leonard’s paralysis. He scrubs himself under the sonics until he feels like the outer layers of his skin have peeled away. He scrubs himself until no trace of the Vulcan’s scent remains; he even gives himself an enema so he can feel cleansed inside.

He’d scrub his own brain if he could; he’d use a steel-bristled brush to scratch the Vulcan right out of the folds in the delicate gray matter. But he can’t rid himself of that violation so easily. He still feels wrong, as if that alien invader is still inside him.

He finally abandons the attempt to feel clean and steps out of the shower cubicle. A coverall is waiting for him; it isn’t his normal tunic and trousers. He puts it on anyway.

He expects Spock to be gone when he emerges.

He isn’t.

Spock rises from his seat at Leonard’s desk. Another person has entered the room: a human male with white hair and a leathery, lined face, perhaps sixty years of age. The man sits on Leonard’s bed. Spock notices Leonard staring at him. 

“This is your replacement, Dr. Puri. He will now care for the humans in this facility.” Spock pauses. “You and I are leaving.”

Leonard balks, panicking. “No.” He won’t go anywhere willing. The sonofabitch will have to drag him kicking and screaming.

Spock sighs visibly. He rises and steps forward to face Leonard, who backs up against the wall, quivering with rage and fear. 

“I would prefer not to have to do this,” Spock states and sets his hand on Leonard’s shoulder. “It is decidedly inconvenient.”

“Good thing it’s so late,” Puri says. “Nobody will see you carrying him.”

The world goes black.

*****

Leonard awakens lying on a hard, narrow cot surrounded by unfamiliar durasteel walls. A distinct hum, a bone-deep vibration, pervades everything that surrounds him. He knows this sensation: he’s in a spacecraft, and the warp engines are in service. 

He is being moved.

Leonard rises, grimacing at the kink in his neck and the residual stiffness of his muscles. The door yields to his hand. Spock is piloting the craft, which appears to be a shuttle full of empty seats. The nameplate of the shuttlecraft reads “Galileo.” This tells Leonard nothing.

“We will arrive aboard the Enterprise in approximately three hours and seven minutes,” Spock says, apparently expecting him. “You require a briefing before your arrival. Are you prepared to listen in a civilized manner, or will I be forced to restrain you?”

McCoy becomes aware, suddenly, that he is no longer wearing a whore’s utilitarian coverall. It has been replaced with a uniform similar to Spock’s own, save only the braid at the sleeves, which indicates a lower rank. He’s been conscripted. Shanghaied.

Possibly... rescued. 

“No,” he says slowly. “I’ll listen.”

*****

Spock regards him for a long moment before speaking. “I have long anticipated rejection by the wife my father chose for me when we were children, and I anticipated my eventual use of this facility. After becoming aware of you and acknowledging my attraction to your physical characteristics, I investigated your history and your credentials,” Spock tells him. “I determined you would be a satisfactory CMO aboard the Enterprise after Dr. Puri’s retirement, and were therefore a logical choice to become my mate.”

“How nice that you consulted me before acting.” Leonard invested it with full bitterness.

“I believe you will find your new position aboard the Enterprise far preferable to your previous location. You will not be subject to sexual demands from anyone but myself. You will be in a position to maximize your contribution to medicine.” He turns to McCoy quietly. “And there are other rights and privileges. I have made you my official marital partner, doctor.”

“You think being married to you will make me happy?” McCoy sputtered, incredulous.

Spock raised a brow at him. “Humans are kept in that facility because they do not have Vulcan citizenship and therefore may not automatically claim the rights of marriage after assisting a Vulcan partner through _pon farr._ Some prefer to have it thus. I had no obligation--”

“Assisting.” McCoy drawled. “Is that what the kids are calling rape these days?”

Spock’s face turned even stonier than before, and he rotated his chair a quarter turn to the left, returning his attention to the control panel. 

*****

The First Officer’s quarters would not be considered lavish by most civilians, but McCoy suspected they were opulent compared to those occupied by others of lesser rank. Spock possessed a full lavatory with both sonic and water bathing facilities included, two sleeping chambers (the unused one rather smaller than the one he occupied himself), a living area, and a little conference room. The temperature within the main area was oppressively high, causing McCoy to break into a sweat at once, but the small sleeping chamber and the conference area had doors of their own and their environments were set to Terran standard conditions.

“You may furnish your sleeping room as you like,” Spock said, curt.

“With what?” McCoy snorted. He owned the clothes he’d been wearing when Spock abducted him, and nothing more.

“I expect you will collect material positions just as the other crew do. You are now a member of Starfleet, and you will accrue regular monetary compensation from the organization.” Spock stared at him, inscrutable. “It is also traditional on Vulcan for spouses to provide for one another’s comfort as they deem necessary.” 

Spock had made at least some efforts in that direction; the little room contained a hard, narrow bed with minimal bedding, a discreet closet filled with blue and black uniforms in McCoy’s size with his rank designation on the sleeve, and a cabinet with smaller garments stored inside: Starfleet issue briefs and socks in sufficient quantity for one week’s wear, ceremonial gold sashes, and.... 

McCoy blinked at the small array of weapons laid out on velvet in the second drawer: a phaser, an ornate belt dagger, and a slim-lined boot dagger. Another small triangular device lay next to them, but he was not familiar with it.

“I would advise against any attempt to utilize those on me,” Spock said, his voice silky with threat. “My guards would thwart you, and they are not merciful.”

“Who am I supposed to use them on, then?” McCoy picked up the belt dagger, which fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He tested its blade-- wickedly sharp, leaving a small, stinging cut at the base of his thumb. 

“Anyone who menaces you. Anyone you see fit to menace.”

“So all the stories about the ’Fleet are true.”

Spock raised a brow. “I suspect many of them are accurate. Do you require training in self-defense?”

McCoy affixed one dagger to his belt and slid the other into his boot. “I spent time living in Atlanta. I can handle myself.”

“Do not forget to carry your agonizer.”

“My…?”

“This.” Spock picked up the little triangle. “It is an efficient means of disciplining subordinates who do not perform according to reasonable expectations. Place it on the offender, press the symbol in the center, and the device will stimulate the individual’s nociceptors into a state of hyperalgesia.”

“You mean it causes intense pain.”

“Without the inconvenience of causing tissue damage.” Spock turned the little device over in his hand. “It works on the majority of known sentient species. Some individuals or species may experience a greater or lesser resistance to its influence. Subjected to the agonizer set at maximum strength, the human body will typically succumb to terminal complications such as heart failure within two or three days.”

McCoy tossed the device back into its drawer, shuddering. “I’m not Dr. Caligari.”

“Carry it because it is required of you by the rules of military service,” Spock instructed. “No one will force you to use it on others, but your senior officers may require you to produce it if you require discipline.”

McCoy picked the foul thing up and shoved it into his pocket, scowling. “So this is how you’ll discipline me if I refuse to submit to you sexually.”

Spock’s face tightened again. “I will not use the agonizer on you unless I am forced to do so by your refusal to comply with orders directly regarding your official duties-- or your failure to perform adequately in compliance with such orders.”

“Is that so?” McCoy’s tone was more insolent than he intended-- but he was still furious at his own powerlessness, his helplessness, and his absolute dependence on this man. 

“Doctor, if I require your compliance, I am quite capable of using other means to obtain it.”

McCoy didn’t have to imagine. He took a step back, ready to fight, but Spock did not pursue. 

“Your first duty shift begins tomorrow morning. I have instructed my own personal physician, Dr. M’Benga, to give you a tour of the facility and introduce you to your subordinates. You will wish to transfer some of them and interview replacements. Consider your choices carefully and submit all such requests to the first officer for consideration.”

“That’s you.”

“Indeed.”

*****

The tour was going well enough at first; M’Benga seemed competent and acceptably neutral, willing to share his knowledge of the facilities and the people who manned them, without particular resentment of McCoy stepping in to fill a prime position he might have coveted.

“I’m a specialist,” he said. “I contracted with Sarek of Vulcan to provide care for his son in exchange for him financing my education. When I’ve finished the term of my contract, I’ll move back to Earth and make a killing as the only human physician trained to treat Vulcans.” He handed over the keys to McCoy’s office and his desk-- and McCoy automatically made a mental note to have both locks replaced promptly. 

“You worked in the assistance facility?” M’Benga asked, seeming cordial enough, but there was a sharpness of knowledge in his eyes that McCoy didn’t like.

“The rape facility would be more accurate.” McCoy tested one of the keys and examined the drawer it opened. 

“I wouldn’t use that word.” M’Benga folded his arms-- was he actually on the greenies’ side? So it seemed. “Rape implies a conscious and meditated decision, a knowing choice to overpower someone sexually.” He glanced behind them and stepped aside to palm the door sensor, closing it for privacy. “A Vulcan in _pon farr_ doesn’t have much of a choice. The fever takes their ability to consider or even consent to what they do in the moment they do it.”

“They choose who to rape before the fever takes them,” McCoy snarled through clenched teeth. 

“If they can’t resolve the mating imperative with sexual congress, the blood fever kills them.” M’Benga didn’t back down. “What would you choose?”

“I’d choose to ask a free person for help rather than forcing a slave to submit,” McCoy snapped.

“I won’t say it’s an ideal situation.” M’Benga shook his head, thoughtful. “Especially not for the humans in that facility. They have no rights and receive no compensation-- they don’t even exist, legally-- unlike the Vulcans who choose to offer themselves there.” 

M’Benga tapped Leonard’s chest with a broad fingertip. “Most humans don’t receive compensation, I should say.” He gave McCoy a shrewd glance. “Few Vulcans choose to seek relief with a human, and it’s unheard of for a Vulcan to take a human bondmate. It’s only happened twice in history.”

“Do tell,” McCoy drawled, investing the words with maximum sarcasm.

“Spock’s father married his human consort, though I’ll confess he didn’t meet her at that facility,” M’Benga admitted, “But Sarek did marry Amanda under the terms of Vulcan law. And his son has done likewise with you.”

McCoy bared his teeth with fury, expecting the tale of his slavery and violation to be common knowledge among the crew within a day, if it wasn’t already. 

“Doctor, there are a lot of horrible people in Starfleet and in the Federation government,” M’Benga observed, holding his ground. “Most of them are in the service for personal gain; they want to plunder the galaxy and they’ll kill anyone who stands between them and power and wealth. From what I’ve been able to observe, Spock isn’t one of them.”

“Then what the hell is he here for?”

“Because it’s better than the alternative, I suspect.” M’Benga gave Leonard a smile full of straight, white teeth. “He’s a brilliant scientist. He could have attended the Vulcan Science Academy and built a distinguished career without ever leaving home. But if you were him, would you rather spend your life on a planet full of scheming, backstabbing Vulcans who hated you and were your equals or superiors physically and intellectually-- or a starship full of scheming, backstabbing humans who hated you that you could run rings around? Plus as a bonus he’s on the cutting edge of the frontier, making new discoveries every day.”

McCoy grimaced; the choice seemed pretty obvious when M’Benga put it that way.

“I’d cut Commander Spock some slack if I were you. You could’ve done a lot worse, doctor.” M’Benga gave Leonard a polite nod and slipped out, leaving him to survey the inside of his office. Someone had mounted a stuffed six-legged lizard on the wall: just plucked it up, hollowed it out, tanned it, stuffed it full of sawdust, and jammed it up there. Like McCoy himself, it hadn’t had any choice in the matter. 

“So we could’ve done worse, huh?” he asked it. It gave him a dead-eyed stare in response. 

McCoy wondered, abruptly, if he had comm access. ...If he could put a call through to his daughter. She probably believed he was dead.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

*****

No alarms went off, nobody came after him… maybe tomorrow he’d get called up on the carpet. But he’d spoken to Joanna and seen the tears of joy in her eyes, and that was worth everything that might happen, even the agonizer. 

McCoy wasn’t officially on duty yet, but when two ensigns from Engineering came in with burned hands, he shooed Chapel away and took them himself. 

“I’m quite capable of handling this minor matter while you attend more important things, doctor.” She tried to manipulate him, her voice crisp and her spine straight. She spat the words with obvious contempt, though, and her ice-blue eyes bored holes right through him.

She was going to be a problem; he could tell. She’d had her cap set for Spock, M’Benga said, and she obviously hated him for scoring where she’d come up short. Plus she had a sadistic bent; seeing her start to work on one of the men without even administering a topical? McCoy winced. Butchery. 

“I want you to prepare a full inventory of our supplies and of the drugs in the dispensary,” he ordered her. “Seems to me this place is ripe for chipping, and I won’t have it. Understood?” 

“Yes, doctor.” She whisked away with anger simmering in her eyes. She’d probably cook the books this time-- but this would at least form a baseline, and after she used up whatever she had on hand, nobody would get away with manipulating medical supplies for personal gain, not in Leonard McCoy’s sickbay. 

And if that meant he had to use his agonizer… McCoy sighed. Maybe if he made Chapel an early example, he’d scare everyone else so badly they wouldn’t cross him. 

The door whooshed, but he didn’t look up, absorbed in regenerating the delicate nerve fibers Ensign Anders would need if he intended to pursue a career in repairing delicate circuitry. He only became aware of his visitor’s importance when both Anders and Pritchard stiffened, coming to rapt attention.

“Spock said we had a new CMO,” an unfamiliar voice greeted McCoy. “Looks like he was right.”

McCoy risked an upward glance-- shit, command gold. _Shit_ , captain’s insignia. Slouching against the wall, smirking-- beautiful, with blue eyes like the ocean rolling in over a tropical white sand beach, untamed dark blond hair, and a jaw you could’ve used to cut diamond. The beauty was deceptive; underneath it the kid looked hard as nails. 

“I beg your pardon, sir. I’m at a critical phase in this operation.” McCoy returned his gaze to his work. 

“Don’t mind me.” He heard Kirk push away from the wall and approach. The man watched with interest as he finished. 

Pushing away Anders’s repaired hand, McCoy drew himself upright with a grimace and saluted properly. “Captain...” 

“Kirk. Jim Kirk. You can call me ‘captain’ or ‘sir.’” Kirk’s smile didn’t quite touch his eyes. “You did a good job there, it looks like. Glad Spock didn’t bring us a dud. When I got my first look at the holo on top of your file, I thought he might’ve been more interested in your ass than your skills. I should’ve trusted him to select for both.”

McCoy bristled, aware he was being tested. “If you don’t like the way I operate, you’re free to decommission me and return me to Terra.”

“You mean Vulcan,” Kirk corrected, grinning like a shark. “Since your wife obtained a restraining order barring you from Terra after you tried to steal your daughter and take her offplanet during the divorce proceedings.”

McCoy showed an equal number of teeth, refusing to let the man back him down. “Damn near got away with her, too.” _God, I wish I had._

Kirk laughed. “I like a man who’ll stand up for what’s his. As long as it isn’t something I want.”

 _Christ on a crutch, tell me this fucking asshole doesn’t want Spock too. Does everyone on this ship but me want the damned greenie bastard?_ McCoy took a deep breath. “Long as you don’t want my daughter, we’ll get along fine.”

“She’s eight, your records say. Safe from me for another few years.” Kirk smiled, a lot more genuine than before, but it didn’t make Bones any less cautious. “We have a nice state of detente here, doctor, and I hope you won’t see fit to disrupt it. Spock doesn’t want me dead. That’s a rare asset indeed in a first officer. ...Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks.” McCoy doesn’t say the man is a gold-plated Machiavellian sonofabitch; he figures Kirk knows he thinks it. But he can tell one thing Kirk said is true: as long as they don’t experience conflicting goals, they’ll do fine. And Leonard doesn’t want command, or Spock, or anything else he figures Kirk wants. At least not right now.

Still, McCoy will be a balancing figure, a powerful one who’ll probably align in Spock’s corner if push comes to shove-- and maybe that’s why Spock wanted him here. 

*****

“You brought me here because you could control me and help to solidify your power bloc aboard the ship,” McCoy mutters into his dinner, a savory replicated beef stew with crusty sourdough bread. “Damned if I know why you want to be here, though.”

Spock grants the truth of his observation with a polite inclination of his head. “The increase to my power base is a desirable benefit of the arrangement, as it discourages others from challenging me, lest they become unable to obtain competent medical care thereafter. As for what I want… I desire peace, doctor, and stability, and a conducive environment with unlimited funding in which to pursue scientific research. As I have no desire to command, this is an excellent environment in which to pursue my goals.”

Just as M’Benga said. Leonard will keep an eye out until he’s sure it’s true, though. And maybe after.

Lots of perquisites come along with McCoy’s new position, and after a week he starts to settle in. He can, apparently, call Joanna (within acceptable limits delineated by the custody agreement his wife signed at the divorce). He has a replicator in his room and never has to choke down plomeek again. His care purview encompasses most of the 430 crewmembers who make up the Enterprise’s mostly-human crew. He’s even working up a cautious respect for James Kirk-- the silver-tongued, blue-eyed sonofabitch very clearly knows how to give you a charming smile out of one side of his mouth while he’s giving the orders for your destruction out of the other, but he doesn’t apparently care that McCoy is, perforce, loyal to Spock’s faction. It seems he, too, craves stability.

McCoy even gets to sleep alone in his own bed every night; Spock hasn’t made any... personal... demands of him at all. Maybe he won’t, at least not until pon farr rolls around again. That would be ideal.

Of course, if there’s one thing McCoy has learned about the ideal, it’s that the damn thing never happens.

“You are fitting in well aboard the Enterprise,” Spock observes over dinner that night, an event that’s become a daily ritual. “We must take the next step toward establishing you in your position.”

McCoy blinks at him, wary. “And that is?”

Spock evades the point of the question. “My father is… the polite word is ‘an ambassador,’ doctor. In truth he is a watchdog and a negotiator, responsible for ensuring Vulcan’s best interests are served by Federation agreements. The Enterprise is to ferry him and other delegates to confer on Babel prior to the signing of a new accord. My mother will accompany him.” Spock is very stiff, his face absolutely blank.

 _And your parents are going to want to meet your new possession,_ McCoy figured bitterly. He didn’t need Spock to draw him a picture.

“So you want to act married.”

“It would be a great convenience if you are willing.” Spock agreed. “I encourage you to consider the requirements before making your decision.”

“What do I have to do?”

“It is simple and requires minimal effort on your part. You will accompany me to social events, sit at my side, make polite conversation with others at the function, and greet Vulcans with the ta’al.” He demonstrated the salute. “You will also occasionally participate in a traditional gesture known as the ozh’esta.”

“Which is?”

Spock folded all but his two forefingers against his palm and extended his hand. “Touch fingers with me, thus.”

“That would allow you to make telepathic contact with my mind,” McCoy balked, whipping both hands immediately behind his back. 

“Leonard.” Spock sighed, looking almost as if he had a headache. “Various human cultures have a similar saying saying; its essence regards the repair of a barn door or other gate after the escape of the livestock it was intended to contain.”

“Seen it all already, have you?” McCoy resisted the need to wrap his arms around himself. “Doesn’t mean I want to let you see it again!”

“But I will, when my Time returns.” Spock tilted his head; in shadow, his eyes appeared very nearly black. “I hope to establish a more pleasant day to day association with you well before then in order to spare both of us the distress of forced intimacy.”

McCoy bared his teeth. “You want to establish a pleasant relationship after forcing me to endure--.” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘rape.’ “And you’re telling _me_ about fixing the barn door after the cows get out?!” 

“Humans also have many sayings regarding the need to make the best of a situation you cannot escape.” The shadows across Spock’s face made him seem terribly gaunt and menacing. “You are mine by Vulcan law, Leonard. I would not treat you as chattel-- unless I must. The choice is yours.”

McCoy ground his teeth, focusing his mind on the bleak and bitter rage, all the loathing and hatred he felt. He put out the two fingers and Spock touched them-- then recoiled, eyes glittering. 

“That will suffice,” the Vulcan said between clenched teeth. He withdrew, leaving the remains of his dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so this one.... I love this idea, as far as it goes, but I could not figure out how to get Mirror McCoy to give in to Spock and accept what was happening to him and then grow grudgingly to love him. He hated Spock too much; he was absolutely unable and unwilling to forgive him for what had happened; he WOULD NOT play ball. Also... even if I had managed to make it continue, the process of reconciliation was going to be SO AGONIZINGLY SLOW OMMFG. I just couldn't face thousands and thousands and thousands of words trying to make this happen, especially given that they are never really going to be able to be happy in the context of this universe.


	3. Marooned!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ST: AOS, Spock/McCoy. Gen. Based on the Voyager episode "Resolutions," this would have been a story where Spock and McCoy were infected by a bug that required them to stay on the planet where they contracted it, or they would die.

Four security men died within minutes of beam-up from Belemon IV. Spock and McCoy, leading the mission, were saved only by McCoy’s insistence on lingering over collecting a tricky plant sample. The plant was chock full of the sort of dangerous alkaloids that often yielded the most potent chemical medicines; the doctor and Spock successfully harvested a specimen and were on the verge of beaming up with it when the first security officer collapsed-- fortunately, while still within the transporter room undergoing decontamination. The only additional loss of crew was the transporter technician, who became infected by the men he had retrieved.

Investigation showed the infestation to be fungal in nature, benign until its host left the moon, at which point the fungus, missing some elusive but critical factor necessary for its survival, swiftly perished and released massive doses of fatal toxins into the bloodstream.

M’Benga sent a robot to conduct autopsies of a deceased crewmen, discovering the toxicology of the compounds that killed the unfortunate hosts. McCoy and Spock, already infected, undertook more hands-on experiments after a portable lab setup and a temporary shelter were beamed down, but nothing useful resulted. Three weeks of intensive research and experimentation by every science and medical crewmember on the Enterprise proved insufficient either to discover a means to remove the infestation or how to prolong the life of the fungus-- and therefore the host-- after leaving the surface. No one could beam up and no one could beam down.

Jim Kirk dug in his heels at first, refusing to leave his CMO and his XO, his two best friends-- but eventually Starfleet Command’s increasingly strident orders must be heeded. The two were left with every convenience either man could ask for. Jim spoke to them before the Enterprise departed, promising Starfleet would discover how to eliminate the fungus so they could leave the moon, promising to come back with news and supplies-- nearly in tears as he signed off, leaving his two best friends to go it alone together until further notice.

*****

DAY ONE

Long, elegant hands accustomed to the dials and buttons of a tricorder, the touch panel of a computer, delicate tools for repairing microcircuitry, or manipulating slides and pipettes in a laboratory setting curled firmly around the handle of a shovel. McCoy watched as Spock shouldered the implement and set out to the tract of land slated to become their small kitchen garden. Scott had thoughtfully come up with a way to phaser-break the initial ground from orbit, but additional cultivation would have to be accomplished by hand.

He squinted up at the gas giant looming hugely in half the sky, and the fierce white sun glaring in the other. They received some of both most days, with a months-long winter season when the sun’s orbit took it behind Belemon. But Belemon itself reflected a great deal of solar radiation, and there was plenty of light to create abundant solar power and grow crops. 

Water was another matter. They had chosen their living site carefully: their hut was positioned atop a raised bluff some distance from a permanent river, and their large garden would be sited in the curve of the river on prime, rich bottomland. However, they would have to carry or pump all the water they needed for drinking, bathing, and irrigating the smaller kitchen garden.

McCoy quietly packed away his microscope and picked up a hoe, chopping savagely at hunks of the heavy grasslike vegetation that had once covered the plot of their kitchen garden, separating out weeds from soil and tossing the leathery roots aside. They had plenty of supplies on hand, even a solar-powered replicator, but he, too, would work to help grow fresh food.

That night he healed their blisters, cursing vociferously at the bloody crusts on Spock’s hands. 

He knew they would both develop calluses soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously they were to be stuck here for a long time, going through all sorts of adjustments and learning to cope with the challenges posed by homesteading. Maybe this was just a little too like Castaways, but I soon found I couldn't go on. I remember I was going to make a big deal out of McCoy slipping out at night for alone time, bathing, etc. under the reflected light from the gas giant, and Spock usually secretly sneaking after to ensure he was all right.


	4. Everybody Pile on Kirk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ST: AOS. Kirk/everybody. Spock/McCoy. Possibly more pairings as well. This had not made it to an explicit rating yet, but the concept itself is mature. WARNING: dubcon, i. e. fuck-or-die, plot.

Doctor McCoy felt like hammered ass.

Not that he’d ever taken a hammer to anyone’s ass, well, at least not in the sense of an actual hammer. 

He took inventory, groaning. His mouth was dry, and he had a piercing headache. He hadn’t been drinking the night before, so it couldn’t be a hangover. He lay there shivering with chills. He was coming down with something, no doubt about it.

McCoy struggled out of bed and staggered to the head—or what passed for one on this planet. At least there was a mirror. He looked a little haggard, flushed and weary.

Dammit.

He took a leak and went for his medikit, running a quick scan in hopes of finding an easy antibiotic would do the trick.

The readings made him blink, and he spoke a single word. “Fuck.” He snatched for his communicator. “Jim!”

*****

Half an hour later the entire landing party was assembled: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scotty, Chekov, Sulu, and Uhura, all of them looking like somebody dragged them through a knothole backward—all except for Jim. 

“Not good,” McCoy muttered, scanning one after another and coming up with the same results. “I need to consult with the local healers; there may be some kind of remedy I’m not aware of, but none of our databases show anything that’ll touch this stuff.” He scowled at the readout. “You’re the only one who’s not showing symptoms, but that secondary infection you’ve got worries me, too.”

“Prognosis, Bones?” Jim prodded him.

“I’m not sure. Migraine-style headaches are definitely on the menu. A prognosis for recovery isn’t clear. We’re not producing any antibodies, not even you.” He scowled. “Let’s go consult the elder council.”

*****

The elders had plenty of information, none of it good—and they divested the entire part of their communicators and weapons, then bustled them into a room and quarantined them there, aflutter with apologies—and guards carrying projectile weapons.

“This disease ravaged our planet in the past,” the Great Elder told them, speaking through a small slot in the door. “And now we have controlled it; all are infected with both viruses at birth, and they neutralize one another, so our people no longer suffer and die. But this form is new; it has adapted to pass to your kind.”

“Is it fatal?” Bones demanded.

“Yes.” The Great Elder sighed. “The pressure of your blood will increase until all the vessels in your brains rupture, causing death. There is only one treatment.”

“Sounds dire,” Scott muttered. Everyone ignored him.

“You, Captain Kirk, have contracted both the male and the female form of the disease, and thus you must be the salvation of your people,” the Great Elder told him. “You must transmit the female virus to those who do not yet have it.”

“Well, that should be simple enough,” Bones muttered. “Jim can sneeze on us or bleed on us or something, and all of us—except maybe Spock—ought to be fine.”

“It is not so simple.” The Great Elder hesitated. “The female form of the virus… it is a sexually transmitted condition.”

“Oh.” McCoy blinked. “Well, that makes more sense than I care to think about.” He gave Jim a dirty look. “Slept with someone last night, did you?”

Jim had the good grace to look sheepish. “It seemed the hospitable thing to do. Apparently it was pretty smart of me, for once.”

“So just exactly how does the transmission take place?” McCoy demanded of the elder. “Let’s not leave room for any trial and error, here.”

“Via injection of seminal fluid. The virus then enters a new host through—“ the universal translator hesitated at a small spate of words, and delivered the summation ‘osmosis.’

“Then just let us beam up to our ship and I’ll arrange artificial insemination for all of us!”

“I am sorry.” The Great Elder withdrew, face twisting with regret. “We cannot allow you to emerge from this room until all of you test positive for both strains of the virus, and we have seen that it is neutralized. If a mutated form of the male virus were to break free again, re-infecting our people, it might prove disastrous to our planet. Even children would have to be…” he winced. “Inoculated.” 

The Great Elder paused to shrug off the distasteful idea. “Even now, those who have been near you will be forced to have relations with potent carriers of the female virus in order to ensure there is no chance of a breakout of this new male form; rendezvous have been arranged for all. If we allowed you to beam up as you suggest, all your people might become infected.”

“Well, that’s just peachy.” Bones made a face. “How the hell are we supposed to keep from infecting everyone after we’re cured?”

“The virus should not pass on after neutralization. If would not have passed to you, if not for your alien physiology, which left you vulnerable. I am sorry,” he said. “You will be given food and water and necessary supplies.” He shut the slot, which clicked to with a distinct air of finality.

McCoy shook his head. “This is madness. If I had an hour and a decent lab facility, we’d see what’s really required to cure the damned thing.” A spike of pain drove into his head above his temple, and he winced. 

“But you don’t have it.” Scotty blinked at the wall, looking dismayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously everyone was going to have to do the deed with Kirk to get inoculated-- and Spock was going to go first. By the time Kirk just couldn't perform anymore, Spock would have to take over and fix everyone who remained (including, especially, Dr. McCoy). I just did not have the fortitude to write the mass orgy. My reluctant smut muse took one aggrieved look at it and said "I'll be in Barbados; don't call me."


	5. Playing at God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ST: AOS or TOS, Spock/McCoy, currently rated for all audiences. McCoy is abducted by aliens who believe he is a god-- and, much like Jack Sparrow, he finds out it's not all it's cracked up to be.

*****

“I must not play at God.” --Hippocratic Oath, modern version

“When someone asks you if you’re a god, you say ‘yes!’” -- Winston Zeddemore

*****

It started, as so many things did, with a violation of the Prime Directive.

Not that it was intentional—not this time. A landing party beamed down, disguised as natives, to collect soil samples and botanical cuttings in a remote volcanic area. They beamed down late at night, when the few natives nearby should have been sleeping.

It was probably nobody’s fault that the wind velocity surged in the gust front of an incoming thunderstorm, causing a tree to break, its branch skewering Lieutenant Chen where he stood. McCoy beamed down at once and he started emergency aid immediately—but of course he had to remove his hood and have Ensign Peterson shine a light on Chen so he could see to work. That was unavoidable.

It was also arguably nobody’s fault that the locals worshipped a thunderstorm god, and had therefore arisen from their beds for a little nocturnal worship under the lightning. Certainly it was no more than bad luck that they notice the light and approached it, witnessing with astonishment as McCoy extracted a substantial branch from Chen’s sternum, repaired the gushing wound, sealed it, and revived him for transport. The aliens couldn’t be blamed for watching in shocked silence as McCoy helped a man who should have been a corpse rise to his feet and stand up, very obviously alive and more or less healthy.

It could not be argued that the capture was McCoy’s fault, either. He had no choice other than to supervise the beam-out, waiting behind because there were too many personnel to go at once.

Impressed by the irrefutable proof of McCoy’s incredible powers and goaded on by the flares of lightning behind the shoulders of the volcanic cone, the natives themselves surely could not be faulted for promptly popping a leather bag over the doctor’s head and abducting him, leaving his communicator to squawk on the ground, unheeded. 

*****

McCoy awoke lying on a heap of soft, luxuriant fur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have NO memory of where this was going. It could go off into the land of explicit shenanigans or stay at a general rating. But obviously, whatever happened was going to involve a lot of coerced "serve the god" sorts of things on behalf of the Enterprise crew as they attempt to get him back and a dangerous, desperate rescue at the end, before the natives can do something awful to McCoy. It might have been fun if, for a time, McCoy forgot who he really was and believed he actually was a god....


End file.
